


rather be your victim

by tgrsndshrks



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, BUT... NOT REALLY IT'S JUST IN DIRTY TALK, Choking, Coming In Pants, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Guro, Hand Jobs, M/M, Necrophilia, Sexual Fantasy, Snuff, wait i forgot - Freeform, where do I start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 06:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11800296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: “You got a death wish or something?” Brian remarks, bringing a hand up to Trent's hair, toying with a curl. “If I didn't know you I'd think you had some kinda snuff kink.”or, trent has a snuff kink.





	rather be your victim

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY FUCK WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN HERE
> 
> this is a fucking abomination. it's a fic where brian and trent talk dirty to each other about brian murdering trent and fucking his corpse, okay. what it says on the tin. dead dove do not eat.
> 
> i wrote this in one night. i would like to formally blame ray halosandseeds for this, and also slightly my boyfriend, but ray got me thinkin about some of my um. more fucked up kinks and well, this came out. the coming in pants is for the boyfriend.
> 
> sorry obama.
> 
> warnings for things that are mentioned during the dirty talk but not enough to warrant an actual tag: gut fucking, penectomy/genital mutilation, blood as lube, and dismemberment.
> 
> also title from third day of a seven day binge by manson
> 
> i'm... y'know what i have nothing to say for myself. fuck it. here's the thing.
> 
> ETA 1/7/18: [i did a dvd commentary on this fic here on my blog!](http://skold.tumblr.com/post/169449290317/i-almost-missed-that-dvd-style-commentary-on-a-fic)

Trent's focus is broken by the crinkle of plastic pants.

He blinks, eyes achy from staring at the computer screen far too late into the night, and when he turns toward Brian in the doorway he has to squint a little to get them to focus on him. He's holding the tape.

“This,” Brian says, “is some fucked up shit.”

Trent doesn't say anything, just looks at him expectantly.

“I like it.”

Trent sighs, relieved. Not that he'd change the whole film for Brian, just – he values Brian's opinion, okay? He's the first one to watch it other than Trent, and he'd been more than a little worried Brian would think it was too much. Irrationally, probably.

“Thanks,” Trent says, and Brian walks over to the desk, sets the tape labeled _BRKN_ next to the soundboard. 

“You sure they'll let you release it?” Brian asks. Trent furrows his brow, shrugs, shakes his head.

“Why wouldn't they?” he asks.

“Just,” Brian says, “it's a bit of a recurring theme, isn't it?” Trent looks up at him, but Brian's looking at the soundboard, all its lights. 

“What is?” Trent asks.

“Death,” Brian says. “Torture. Sexual torture. You dying in videos or implying your death. I mean, what, that's three videos now?” Trent swallows, his throat dry.

“It's supposed to mean something,” Trent says, turning back toward the computer in his chair.

“You got a death wish or something?” Brian remarks, bringing a hand up to Trent's hair, toying with a curl. “If I didn't know you I'd think you had some kinda snuff kink.”

Trent's throat tightens a little. He laughs once.

“Yeah,” he says, deliberately not looking at Brian, “I guess I see how you might think that.” Trent practically hears Brian's eyebrow go up and the smirk split his face.

“Trent,” Brian says, “why'd you never tell me?”

“I don't have snuff fantasies,” Trent lies, grabbing the mouse a little aggressively. He clicks around, trying to avoid having to discuss the subject. Fuck Brian and his weird way of reading his mind. Brian shifts behind Trent's chair, brushes his fingers through black strands, glowing blue in the light of the screen.

“You can tell me,” Brian says.

“There's nothing to tell,” Trent says stiffly. He clenches at the mouse, trying to will Brian to leave him alone, or at least stop pressing the subject.

Brian hums. “You're an awful liar,” he says softly, and Trent whines. He's caught.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Trent says firmly.

“I sure fucking do,” Brian says, fingers still toying in Trent's hair. “I think that's _hot_.”

“Brian,” Trent says, because fuck, he's got songs to finish mixing and he hasn't gotten this drum loop right and he doesn't have _time_ for this, for – 

“Is it the dying?” Brian asks. “Or do you want to be defiled afterwards?”

“ _Brian_.”

“Bit of both?” Brian leans down a bit, moves a hand to Trent's throat, resting there. “How would you want me to do it?” Trent holds his breath, squeezing his eyes closed. He's never told anyone, barely ever let himself think about it except in the agonizing seconds before orgasm, fist pumping away, other hand around his own neck.

“It's both,” Trent admits, knuckles white in their grip around the mouse. The words hang a moment, Brian's hand pulling Trent's chin up a bit, dropping his head back.

“Wanna tell me about it?” Brian asks. His voice is quiet. Trent opens his eyes, a curtain of black hanging above him, Brian's eyes dark and curious. Trent trusts him and he hates it.

“I've never,” Trent starts to say, but Brian's other hand is on his shoulder, reassuring.

“I wanna hear,” he says. Trent swallows.

“I can't explain,” he says, shaking his head. “Doesn't make sense.”

“Doesn't have to,” Brian says.

“Fuck,” Trent says, whining. He doesn't know where to begin. “I'm always... when I think about it, I always want it.”

“You want to be tortured?” Brian asks. “Mutilated. Murdered.” Trent nods. “Hm. Wouldn't mind hearing you beg to be stabbed.” Trent keens at that.

“That's just it,” he says. “Knives. Or bare hands choking.” Brian hums, understanding, tightening his grip around Trent's throat a little.

“That alright?” he asks, and Trent nods, so he continues. “That's pretty good shit. You'd look hot covered in blood.”

“Gutted,” Trent whispers.

“I'd fuck the hole,” Brian murmurs. “Come in your insides.”

“Fuck,” Trent moans, hard as fuck in his pants. He finally lets go of the mouse, brings his hand down, pushes with his palm to get the edge off.

“Dirty boy,” Brian says. “Touching yourself while I talk about fucking your guts.”

“Can't help it,” Trent murmurs. Brian stands back, turning Trent's spinning chair around and backing it into the table, trapping him. He grabs Trent's wrists, places them firmly on the arms.

“You touch yourself again and I'll personally cut your cock off,” Brian hisses, and Trent physically bucks just at the words. “Leave your balls though. Permanently pent up, never able to come again--”

“Jesus, Brian,” Trent chokes out. Brian plants his knee on the chair between Trent's thighs, wedges it up against his crotch, leather squeaking against plastic.

“Go ahead,” Brian says, and Trent knows instantly. He grinds his cock into Brian's thigh, moaning at the pressure. “Precious little whore.”

“What after?” Trent asks, rocking his hips against Brian's leg. Not a full stroke, just sweet friction.

“I'm nowhere near done with you, sweetheart,” Brian says. He grabs Trent's neck again, squeezing this time. “Maybe I'll choke you out a few times, just enough for you to black out, then when you come to I'll still be here, ready to do it all over again. Make you guess which time I'll finally keep holding till the life leaves you.”

“Fuck,” Trent whispers. “Choke me harder.” Brian does, squeezing the sides of Trent's neck, restricting blood flow as Trent dicks into the hard surface of his thigh.

“Maybe we can play autopsy,” Brian remarks. “See how many organs I can cut out before you finally fucking die.” Trent tries to moan but it breaks in his throat, caught in Brian's grip. “Then, what to do with your pretty little corpse.”

“Please,” Trent breathes.

“Maybe I'll fuck your mouth since you won't need to breathe,” Brian says. “Can go as deep as I want as long as I want.” He presses harder into Trent's crotch and Trent gasps, whines, grits his teeth. “I'll have to be quick before rigor mortis sets in or you get cold. Pry your ass open and fuck it as dry as I want. No need to care about your comfort if you're dead. Or just use your blood for lube.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Trent moans, hips shaking, rolling chair sliding a bit.

“Are you gonna come in your fucking pants while I'm talking about defiling your fucking corpse?” Brian asks. It's not condescending. Maybe a little shocked.

“Yeah, holy shit,” Trent chokes out. Brian pins him to the back of the chair by his throat, Trent's breath coming in quick little gasps through his narrowed windpipe, strained.

“Fucking do it then,” Brian says, staring him down. “I'll allow you one more orgasm before I gut you and throw your insides all over this fucking room.” Trent swears again, barely a breath, and for a second there's just the sound of vinyl and leather rubbing against each other, and then Trent's moan getting trapped in his throat, coming out keening and desperate. He gives a few last pushes with his hips before he falls back into the chair, and Brian lets go of his throat. Trent takes a big gasp of air, coughs on it.

“Fuck,” Trent sobs out.

“Holy shit,” Brian says. “Show me.”

Trent wordlessly unbuttons his pants, shoves them down enough to show Brian the wet spot where come has soaked through. He folds the waistband down, panting, and there's a pink flash of cock, wet and raw, and Brian fucking growls. Trent doesn't say anything. He sits upright and grabs at the button fly of Brian's pants and nearly rips it open, still out of breath, grabbing at Brian's cock and starts working it with both fists, one above the other, spits on it in his hands. Brian braces himself on the arms of the chair, face inches from Trent's.

“I want you to cut me open,” Trent whispers, lips bitten red. Brian nods him on, bucking into his fists. “Chin to cock. Play in my guts. Tear my heart out. Fuck the valve.”

“Romantic,” Brian hums, dropping his forehead against Trent's. Trent's eyes catch the dim light for a split second, a flash of green.

“Keep me on ice,” Trent continues, voice low and even. “Or just the important parts. Cut off the limbs and dump them. Head too. Keep my torso as your dead sex toy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Brian grits out. “You fucking _whore_.”

“Tell me I'm your dead fuck toy,” Trent murmurs, mouth against Brian's.

“You're my dead fuck toy,” Brian says back, legs threatening to give out. “Jesus, fuck, Trent--”

Trent doesn't say anything else, and Brian doesn't need him to. Brian comes, cock spilling over in Trent's fists and onto his shirt. Trent bites at Brian's lips and Brian grabs his face, smashes their mouths together. Trent licks at Brian's mouth as he works the rest of his orgasm out and Brian lets him.

“Trent,” Brian says, breathless, and Trent lets him go, brings his come slick fingers to his mouth. Brian swears under his breath, watches Trent's tongue between the digits. “I didn't... I don't-”

“I know,” Trent says, after the last finger is clean. He puts his hands on Brian's shoulders, keeps him close. “It's not real. It can't be, but. This is okay too.”

“Doesn't mean we can't fake it,” Brian says. “You've got come on your shirt. I'm sure the coroner wouldn't be too happy to find that.” He laughs once.

“Who says you're not the coroner?” Trent asks, narrowing his eyes, and Brian huffs, head still spinning from his orgasm.

“Christ,” Brian says. “You're disgusting.”

“So are you,” Trent says, and neither of them are wrong. Brian's quiet for a second.

“Can I take some polaroids of you done up like my victim?” he asks.

“For the album?” Trent asks. Ugh, the _album_.

“Nah,” Brian says. “For me.” Trent bites back a grin. It's not a terrible idea.


End file.
